


you look desperate, you look pathetic

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Artificial Insemination, Bugs & Insects, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other, Oviposition, Speculums, brief cervix penetration, eggs hatch inside of host, giving birth to worms/larvae, mild medkink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26841553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Peter appears like he always does – out of nowhere, in a rush of static and wispy clouds.[Noncontober day 4: bugs/insects]
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Worms
Comments: 2
Kudos: 51
Collections: Anonymous





	you look desperate, you look pathetic

**Author's Note:**

> This is extremely nasty. Read and understand the tags etc. 
> 
> Title is from Sweet Dreams, Sweet Cheeks by Los Campesinos. 
> 
> Martin is trans and so am I. His genitalia is referred to with the words cock/folds/hole/cunt.

Peter appears like he always does – out of nowhere, in a rush of static and wispy clouds.

“Will you stop doing that?” Martin snaps. “Even Elias manages to enter rooms normally.”

“Right,” Peter agrees. “My apologies. But listen, Martin, I have something important to share with you.”

His hand comes to rest on Martin’s shoulder. For a moment he thinks about shrugging it off; telling him to _fuck off_ ; storming out of the office. Maybe all the way home, even. 

By the time he feels the needle pierce the skin of his arm right below his shoulder it’s already too late.

// 

The next time he’s aware of his surroundings (or his body, for that matter) he’s lying down.

“Hello there,” Peter greets him from between his spread open thighs. 

His first instinct is to try to close his legs, to try to wiggle away, but Peter’s broad, strong hands spread his thighs again easily. His muscles feel weak. He’s powerless to stop him. Powerless to do anything at all, except to lie there and take whatever it is that Peter’s planning on doing to him.

“What are you doing?” Martin asks. He’s aiming for anger, but his tongue feels heavy in his mouth with fear and whatever drug it is that Peter’s put into him. The words come out as a muffled jumble of sound. Peter understands him anyway. Martin almost wishes he didn’t.

“Ah,” Peter replies with some degree of excitement, “I’ll show you.” 

He gives Martin’s bare thigh a light pat, and reaches for – something. Martin’s eyes follow his hand, and he’s suddenly aware of the little metal case on the floor next to Peter. It’s open, but Martin’s eyes refuse to focus for long enough to identify any of the objects inside of it, so he looks away instead. At the wall behind Peter’s head, at the floor, at the top of Peter’s head. His eyes don’t focus on any of them, no matter how hard he blinks or how hard he tries to understand what the blobs of color he’s looking at translate into.

Peter’s hand appears into his field of vision. Martin, vision swimming, tries to focus his eyes on it long enough to make out the shape of the object he’s holding, the material, the color of it. 

It’s a speculum, he realizes after a few seconds of confused blinking. Slick and wet with lube, shining in the lights of the room. 

That means –

“No,” Martin whimpers. “Put that away.” 

“Don’t worry,” Peter assures him, voice pleasant, almost conversational. “It’s not going to hurt.” 

Both of his hands come to rest between Martin’s thighs, fingers spreading his folds open without much care, his cock and opening exposed to the cool air. Peter says something. Martin doesn’t hear him over the sound of his blood rushing through his head. Between his legs Peter dips one finger to the first knuckle into his dry cunt briefly, takes it back out, seemingly satisfied. 

“Now this might be a little uncomfortable,” Peter murmurs, and then he slides the speculum into Martin as if it’s nothing, the lube easing its glide. 

It’s not painful, but the metal is cold, and trying to move away does nothing, not when Martin’s muscles refuse to cooperate. “Don’t,” he mumbles, as if the instrument isn’t already inside of him. 

“Don’t worry,” Peter says, “this’ll only take a moment. Just relax.”

So Martin closes his eyes. Peter fiddles with the speculum, and there’s a jolt of discomfort as the prongs of it start moving, spreading his insides open. 

“Look at you,” Peter murmurs gently, like he’s struck by adoring fascination. Like Martin is something strange and beautiful. An exotic animal, perhaps, or an alien lifeform. He dips a finger inside. Martin can’t feel it. “All pretty and pink.”

Martin thinks about telling him to stop again. He’s not certain it’d make any difference. 

Peter takes his hands away and turns away, then, leaving the speculum in him as he does. Martin tries to clench around it, but his muscles, loosened up and disobedient, manage only the weakest of flutters. He can feel the cool air of the room caressing his walls. It feels wrong. There are tears beading at the corners of his eyes. 

When Peter appears back where Martin can see him he flinches. Peter’s only reaction is a gentle smile. There’s something in his hand, again, and Martin’s caught between looking and closing his eyes tightly. If he closes his eyes he can pretend whatever he’s about to do isn’t going to happen at all. If he doesn’t look, at least he doesn’t have to be aware of what’s about to happen. Maybe, he thinks, not knowing would be better. Plausible deniability. Something to hang onto and pretend it means anything. 

“Here we go, sweetheart,” Peter says. “Don’t look away, now, love. Come on. Here, look.” 

Martin does, reluctantly. It’s a large syringe, this time. It’s full of thick liquid, or – or something close to liquid, at least. The thickness is more slime than water, he thinks deliriously. Is slime a liquid? Must be. As his eyes focus and his brain slowly processes what he’s seeing he realizes it’s not _just_ liquid. There is something suspended in it. 

Dozens of little orbs. 

Eggs. 

He tries to scream. He tries to thrash. Neither works, and without acknowledging his struggling at all Peter nudges the head of the syringe into him, and with the speculum forcing him to stay open and vulnerable it just _slides in_ , the sides of the syringe brushing against the metal of the instrument. 

“Try to hold still, Martin,” Peter tells him, and then he carefully, carefully nudges at the opening of Martin’s cervix with the long, thin end of the syringe. Martin holds his breath. There’s no way he’s going to try to push it in, he thinks feverishly, there’s no way. It won’t go in. It won’t work. He’s just going to try, and fail, and he’s going to give up, and that’ll be it. Just something to scare Martin. 

But despite Martin’s prayers Peter jams the head of the syringe in. It breaches through the resistance of the muscle in one violent, strong push, and Martin’s back arches, adrenaline coursing through him in pulses. 

Because this time, instead of merely being uncomfortable and unsettling, it really _hurts_. “No no no no –”

There’s a horrible pressure as the liquid slowly drains from the syringe and into his womb. He tries to squirm, but all he can manage is weak flailing, arms lifting and dropping onto the floor again. His muscles twitch and tremble. 

“Almost done,” Peter says in a tone that reminds Martin of what one would use to soothe a frightened animal. One big hand comes to rest on Martin’s stomach, pets light, broad circles over the soft skin. “You’re doing perfect.”

“Please,” Martin whimpers. Stars bloom and disappear out of existence right in front of his eyes. He can’t see from the pain of it. He can barely speak. 

“Almost there,” Peter promises. “You’ll make _just_ the perfect host.”

“No,” Martin whispers. He doesn’t think Peter’s going to listen. At this point it’s just instinct. “No.”

Maybe it’s not real. Maybe this is just a nightmare. Martin looks down at Peter and tries to find any hint of this being made up. Maybe when he sees his face again he’s going to have too many eyes, or too many teeth, or no face at all. It’s a comforting thought. 

But Peter pulls the empty syringe out and holds it up for Martin to see, devastatingly real. Martin whimpers.

“Sleep,” Peter tells him. He pushes down on Martin’s lower stomach gently. Martin knows, sickeningly certainly, that his hand is right where he’s just emptied that egg-filled syringe. 

“Jon’s going to know,” he whispers. “I’m going to go to Jon. You’re going to regret this.”

“He won’t care,” Peter chuckles. “And besides, if he did, what could he do? Report me to Elias? Call the police?” He chuckles, as if he’s just told a funny joke. “Rest, Martin. You’ll need it.”

// 

Martin jolts awake in a completely dark room, mouth dry. For a brief, blissful second he thinks he must’ve dreamed it all, settled down on the floor for a nap for some reason and had the strangest, most distressing nightmare he’s had in a long time, but then he becomes aware of the ache settling between his legs. The gaping emptiness of his cunt from where the speculum had spread him open to his limit only to be yanked back out again. The fact that he’s naked below his waist.

He ignores all of it. He looks out through the window into the pitch blackness. It must be close to midnight. Maybe later. He glances at his watch. The digital clock reads two in the morning. That means he’s been here for hours and hours and _hours_. 

There’s a light cramping sensation that pulses through his stomach, his hips. He puts a hand on his belly. They won’t take, Martin thinks wildly. They can’t.

//

But they _do_.

He makes it home in a daze, only partially aware of his surroundings, and buries himself in his bed, still fully clothed. Despite himself he falls into a restless sleep, and when he wakes up it’s broad daylight. He can’t be sure, but he could _swear_ that he eggs have grown in the few hours they’ve been in him. There’s an aching pressure between his hips that he’s not used to. A foreign thing. Something that makes him feel like he’s going to be sick. 

“Sick. Can’t make it,” he texts Tim with trembling hands, and then, after thinking about it for a moment, Jon as well. Not that he’d care. Not that Jon is going to be there anyway. He never is anymore. 

He curls up in bed, knees to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs. Inside of him the eggs keep growing, slowly, slowly. If he closes his eyes tightly enough he can focus on it instead. The feeling of his eyelids squeezing shut. The feeling of pressure behind his eyelids, the burst of stars and little white dots in the dark.

//

The eggs quickly get big enough that they’re a constant, distracting weight between his hips. Every time he thinks he’s gotten used to them, the additional weight of them, the shape of them bulging out his stomach lightly, just enough that when he carefully, gently puts his hand on top of where they’re nestled away securely he can feel them, the stretched out shape of his womb pulling his skin taut they grow _more_.

Heavy and large. It can’t get worse, he thinks feverishly, one hand petting over the skin desperately, as if the skin to skin contact will make them stop, to make them disappear. It can’t get worse than this. It can’t.

//

And then the eggs hatch.

//

Whatever the things inside of him are they are not content to stay still and allow Martin to get used to the presence of them.

There are so _many_. Not all of the eggs hatched, he thinks, because there were dozens of them in that syringe, suspended in that jelly-like liquid, but there are still too many, much too many. They squirm and move and bulge out his stomach with no relief, no sign of stopping. His belly moves with the motion of them, heavy and uncomfortable. 

What’s worse is they don’t actually stop growing. 

It’s slower than when they were still eggs, sure, but it’s still much too fast for his body to take. By the fifth day they’re so large that when they shift and move they knock Martin off balance, the movement showing clearly through the thin, stretched skin of his distended stomach. He’s never been skinny, but now he feels _enormous_. He wants nothing more than to lie in his bed, curled into a tight little ball, and to do nothing at all, but he’s so hungry constantly, so thirsty, so _tired_. The worms don’t let him sleep. He eats and it’s like none of it goes to _him_. As if with every bite they grow larger, and stronger, and more restless. 

Every so often one of them pokes its head at the bottom of his womb, towards his cervix, blunt head ramming against abused muscle. Martin puts his fist in his mouth and bites down. He tries not to scream. He fails more often than not.

//

He hadn’t thought he’d actually go into labour.

He’s not sure what he’d actually expected, really: they – the things – the worms – the larvae – would have to come out eventually, one way or another. The other option would be to cut them out. Guess it’s better for them to go on their own than to have to find someone to take them out, he thinks feverishly. He tries to hold his heavy stomach with his hands as the contractions make him sob and shake, his legs spread desperately where he stands with his arms on the little vanity in his bathroom, underwear kicked to the side. 

Thick slime drips out of him. He shudders, spreads his legs further to keep it from getting on the insides of his thighs. Some of it gets on his cock, somehow. The feeling of the warm slick slowly dripping off the head of it makes him tremble in fear and disgust and unwitting arousal. 

And: 

He’d known the worms were going to be big. He hadn’t realized just _how_ big. 

The first one pokes its head through his cervix with a burst of fluid before he’s open enough for it to. The stretch of it makes him scream, but the worm doesn’t care. It’s thick, squirming, and much too long: by the time the head of it peeks out from between his folds, his cunt stretched beyond its limits, the other end is only barely out of his womb. 

Martin sobs wordlessly in relief and despair when it falls to the bathroom floor with a wet smack. How many are there? How many is he going to have to push out like this? How many is he going to have to allow to wriggle their way out of him, stretch him out until he’s ruined forever, cervix and cunt no longer able to close? 

The next worm, without waiting for him to catch his breath, breaches his cervix and nudges its way out, into his birth canal. Martin screams, muscles clamping around it, and he tries to push, but it does nothing, the worm continuing to slither its way out at its own pace. It brushes against his walls, the sensitive spots, makes it hurt, no care for how the thick, ribbed texture of its body makes Martin feel at all. It, too, slides out with some effort. Martin is glad he can’t see the way it spreads his hole, the folds of his cunt, his cock bobbing with the motion as it slides out of him. 

“Fuck,” he whimpers. “Fuck, fuck fuck –”

Another worm nudges at his opening from the inside and then pushes through eagerly. The pain of it has started easing, he thinks feverishly. Not because he’s gotten used to it, or because it’s getting easier, but because he’s barely in his body anymore. Some part of him is floating away, around his body, watching the restless worms inside of his womb continue to wriggle and push against each other, only a few left, still big enough to be clear through the skin. 

The worm drops onto the floor, right on top of the others. Martin tries to pretend the squirming pile of slick, white worms isn’t there at all. That they all disappeared into thin air as soon as they got out of him. 

The pressure comes back. Martin takes a breath, and then another, and tries to relax his muscles. A contraction goes through his body, painful and insistent, and there’s another nudge at his cervix. He feels it open, and expects a worm to push its slick, thick body out through it, but it keeps stretching, opening further. It hurts, horribly, and he lets out a pained moan. Why –

And then he realizes there are _two_ of them. Two worms. That they’re unhappy to wait for the other to get out first, before pushing their way out. That the way they’ve resolved the issue is by simply fitting their thick bodies out at the same time. 

Martin screams as the worms wriggle down, down, thick bodies tangling together, spreading him impossibly open, his walls stretching painfully around them. Another worm sees its opportunity, the tails of the two others still spreading his cervix open, and wiggles its head into the little hole. 

Martin tries not to pass out. He wonders if it’d be better if he did pass out. At least he wouldn’t have to see it, or feel it, or be there. 

Three is too many. Two is too many. Actually, even one is too many – the bodies are thick, and he’s too tight to handle them, not remotely ready for anything their size, but one is manageable, one he can handle. Two he can’t. The third makes him clench his jaw, teeth grinding together until he’s scared he’s going to break his teeth. 

The worms slide out, first two, and then the third. The sound of them slapping against each other wetly might as well be a gunshot. 

There’s a final one inside of him. He can feel it, the thick shape of it, the squirming of it. The way it thrashes and moves within his stretched out womb. He almost feels empty, with just the one inside of him, he realizes. Almost. 

“Please,” he says out loud, “please get out.”

It doesn’t hear him, he knows, but it does just that anyway, thick head spreading him open, and Martin sighs, ecstatic and trembling from the pain at the same time. He almost doesn’t feel it coming out, although he knows it must hurt. The only thing he can think of is _they’re gone, finally. Finally. Thank god._

//

Peter, as always, appears out of nowhere.

“You did great,” he says. One of his hands lands on Martin’s back. “Isn’t it better to be alone?”

“No,” Martin gasps. A horrible, heavy string of thick slime falls out of him and lands on the tile underneath him. 

Peter’s fingers slide into his gaping open cunt without a warning. Martin hisses but doesn’t bother trying to move away.

“You’re all empty, now,” he notes. “Isn’t it better to not have had anything, than to have and then lose?”

“No,” Martin whispers, all of his muscles tensed. “It’s not.”

Peter pulls his fingers out, rubs them together. The slick slime now coating them makes a wet sound as he does. “You don’t have to lie to me. You understand now, don’t you?”

Martin tries to protest, tries to say _no, it’s not true, this doesn’t mean you’re right about anything,_ but Peter presses his slick fingers to Martin’s mouth to shush him.

“Think about it,” Peter murmurs. “You’ll see what I mean.”

And then he’s gone, and Martin is covered in fluids, and he’s alone. He’s so, so alone –


End file.
